A floodgate opens in my mind of all the things I’ve been ignoring since we broke up in May: that comment he made about not marrying just anyone. The time on my birthday he called me a big lump. The way he looked at Noushka on the launch night, the way his fingers moved in the car. The way he looked at this girl just now. I am paranoid, I am paranoid, I am paranoid, but I know I’m right.
I go over to him and tell him I don’t feel well and that I’m going home.
I rush down the two flights of stairs, grab my coat from the cloakroom, then stand outside on Portobello Road, trying to find a cab.
A moment later James is standing next to me, grabbing my arm.
‘Are you okay?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘What’s wrong?’ he says, panic in his voice.
I want this man.
I have so much desire for him I don’t know where to put it.
But I can no longer live like this. I can hardly breathe.
‘I don’t think I can do this anymore. I can’t be your girlfriend, James, I just can’t do it.’
He looks lost. Scared. Not in control. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops himself.
‘I don’t understand you, James. You ask me to move in, and then you say these things that make me feel like shit. And I don’t have to be in this relationship, you know, I can leave.’
‘What do you mean?’ he says, shocked.
‘I mean Nick made me feel special and you make me feel totally insecure. I don’t understand. Do you even want me to be your girlfriend?’
He stares at me for what seems like an age. Oh, my life to know what is going on inside that messed up, crazy head of his.
‘No,’ he says finally. I swallow hard and nod. I was right. And I’ve lost. There’s nothing more I can do. He grabs my hand and I try to snatch it back. ‘Sophie …’
‘Don’t patronise me by saying how fond you are of me, or how I deserve better …’
‘Shhh, please,’ he says.
‘… or how great my company is …’
‘Shut up, Sophie Klein. I don’t want you to be my girlfriend.’
‘Yeah I know, you don’t need to say it twice.’
‘SHUT UP, WOMAN! I don’t want you to be my girlfriend. I want you to be my wife.’
I can safely say it was a strange proposal.
There’s something funny about all this, and it has nothing to do with the giant raspberry on my head.
We have been dating almost a year, I am about to move in to this man’s house, he has asked me to be his wife.
The funny thing? He has never once said he loves me.
Nick used to say ‘I love you’ ten times a day. I learnt to understand that this was his shorthand for ‘I’m happy’, ‘Goodnight’, ‘I’m lonely’, ‘I feel weird and I can’t put my finger on why,’ ‘Thanks for making spag bol,’ and ‘Please don’t be angry with me’.
You overuse it and you wear it out.
But isn’t there a happy medium?
That night, I dream that James and I are at a party in Bangkok, in the Bonders’ hotel suite. James is deep in conversation with Roger Federer and Shania Twain, and I’m trying to tell him that the train for Las Vegas leaves in five minutes and we’re going to miss our own wedding, but he just nods and smiles, nods and smiles. Still no giant spiders.
James wants to wait till January before thinking about a ring or a party. The kitchen is days from being finished, my custards are keeping me busy, and he has to fly to Moscow three times between December 4th and the 14th to finalise distribution deals with one of his biggest clients. I’ve barely seen him since he proposed. I went to three Christmas parties without him last week – it almost feels like I’m single again.
There is no one I want to be with more than him. This is it. I have found the person I will grow old with. We are to be married. I am finally safe. So why do I feel like I’m on red alert? I’m waking up at 4am every morning, adrenalin coursing through me. It must be excitement. Must be.
It is now the 15th of December and James and I haven’t worked out our New Year’s Eve plans. I’ve mentioned it twice in the last fortnight and twice James says we’ll discuss it nearer the time. Maybe when you get to his age it ceases to be a big deal. I don’t like New Year’s Eve at the best of times so I don’t care what we do – see some friends, drink too much, have a laugh somewhere locally.
We’re in his car on the way to his friends Ed and Rachel for dinner.
‘So, New Year’s Eve – shall we go to Laura’s party or do you want to do something else?’ I say, thinking he won’t be able to escape the conversation now, he’s in the car.
‘Oh. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.’ He looks straight ahead and I can see him swallow.
Then why haven’t you? ‘And?’
‘Yeah … Rob’s going to Vegas with the boys for Oliver Newman’s stag do. Or the Bonders have invited me to join them at their villa in the Cayman Islands. What do you think?’ He turns to look at me briefly.
‘What do you mean, “invited you”? Just you?’
‘I haven’t told them we’re engaged yet. So … what do you think?’
I can feel the blood has drained from my face. ‘Er. I think I’d like to see my fiancé on New Year’s Eve?’
‘I didn’t think you could get time off work, all the custard stuff …’
‘You never asked.’
‘I could see how busy you were.’
‘Hang on, Rob’s going to Vegas without Lena?’
‘It’s a stag, Soph.’
‘And the lovely Mal’s going, presumably …’
He nods.
‘So whoring and boozing in Vegas. Or you go to some tropical paradise with a married couple but without me?’
He looks at me helplessly.
‘Can I come with you to the Cayman Islands?’ I’m thinking that if the bank holidays fall on the right days, I could just about get five days off, it’s a long flight, sure, but I could just about justify it …
‘If we’re going away together, I’d like us to go to our own private place. We can go away for Valentine’s Day. I’ll only be gone a week, it’s no big deal.’
‘Hang on. When did the Bonders invite you?’
He shrugs.
‘More than a few weeks ago, presumably.’
He nods.
‘At dinner after the launch party?’ When he went out all night with Noushka.
He nods.
‘And Oliver Newman’s stag must have been planned for a while, ’cause Vegas is busy at Christmas and flights get booked up, people going home for the holidays … at least six weeks, I’d say.’
He nods. Christ, I’m getting really good at this game.
‘So, you’ve known about both trips for over a month.’
‘Come on, it’s been a crazy month, the launch, the kitchen, the engagement …’
‘And when you said “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about New Year’s Eve”, what you actually meant was “you’re going to have to interrogate me with twenty questions before I’ll admit to a grain of the truth”, so in essence you’ve lied to me.’
Suddenly he pulls the car over and puts it in neutral. His face has switched from sheepish grin to righteous indignation. ‘I have not lied!’
‘No, you just haven’t told the truth.’
He is on the verge of being enraged.
‘I didn’t tell you, Soph, because I knew you’d be like this.’
‘I AM LIKE THIS BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T TELL ME.’
He turns the engine back on and pulls out. ‘Look, we’ll be late for Ed and Rachel. I don’t want to have a row about this in front of them. Can we talk about it later?’
‘I can almost understand if you go to Vegas – it’s a stag. You might have told me before now … but to go to a beach with a couple, it’s too weird …’
‘Please. I don’t want tonight ruined, it’s their anniversary.’
‘I’m not goin
g to ruin their bloody anniversary. We’ll talk about it in the car and then it’s done. Vegas, I can just about accept, but the Cayman Islands …’
‘Okay, okay, I get it, Sophie, Vegas. Enough. We’ll go away in February.’
Since James revealed he’s going off to Vegas, my mind has been on paranoia overdrive. When he popped out of my flat on Sunday morning to buy the papers I convinced myself he was never coming back. The sense of relief I felt when I heard my front door open made me sick with shame. I have become obsessed with the way he moves his fingers and thumb on his right hand whenever he talks about his trips to Moscow.
Of course I cannot live like this and so I have tried to explain to my brain that thoughts of abandonment will become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Focus on the negative and bad things will happen. I tell myself ‘everything’s better than fine’ a dozen times a day. But as much as I may have pulled the wool over my mind, it seems I cannot trick my body. The collection of anxiety stones that I carry inside me has grown into a Japanese rock garden in my chest.
It is now a week later and we’re having a pizza at The Lansdowne, James’s local pub.
‘Have you even looked up flight availability for Vegas?’ James is such a last-minute person at times. Plus he’s rich – he can afford to book flights late.
‘There’s loads of space, it’s fine.’
‘Is it still hot at this time of year?’
‘It’ll be mild, mid-60s?’
‘Why don’t you book it?’
‘It’ll be fine. Let’s just enjoy tonight.’
Two days later, on the 23rd, we’re in Selfridges buying last minute presents. The sale has started early and the store is rammed with bargain hunters demonstrating a marked lack of Christmas spirit. Earlier, I saw two grown women literally come to blows over the last Eve Lom travel set. The handbag hall is like a zoo; leopard print totes, pony-skin satchels and python clutches expose the fact that the human is the scariest animal of all. Up on second, women’s shoes must be carnage.
We’ve retreated down to the basement. I’m scanning the bookshelves trying to remember which football autobiography Laura told me to buy for Dave. James is flicking through an oversized coffee table book with black and white photos of models in various states of undress.
‘I don’t even know what day you’re leaving,’ I say, turning to James who is slowly turning the pages – too slowly for my liking. ‘When did you say the flight to Vegas was?’
He freezes. ‘Oh. Yeah. There’s a flight to Vegas out of Heathrow at 10am on the 25th.’
‘The 25th.’
He nods, then quickly closes the book and moves behind a pillar, towards a table of bestsellers.
‘The 25th of December,’ I say, hurrying to catch him up.
He looks guilty and grabs the nearest book to hand – the latest Katie Price – and starts studiously reading the blurb on the back.
‘You’re unbelievable,’ I say, dumping my shopping bags on the floor and waiting for him to put the book down. Ten long seconds later he is still hiding behind the pink and white cover, pretending to read, and I’m forced to snatch it out of his hands.
He sighs. ‘If I’m going to Vegas I really want to be there with the boys. They’re going on the 25th …’
‘You can say it, you know, you can say ‘I AM FLYING ON CHRISTMAS DAY AND I WILL BE AWAY FOR CHRISTMAS DAY AND NEW YEAR’S EVE.’
‘What? You said you don’t even like New Year’s Eve,’ he says.
‘I don’t like New Year’s Eve, that’s not the point. You didn’t tell me you were flying so soon. I thought I’d see you on Boxing Day, or on Christmas Day in the evening.’
‘You’re going to Laura’s.’
‘For lunch. But I’ll be home later. It’s Christmas Day.’
‘You’re Jewish, Soph,’ he says,
‘I still do Christmas,’ I say. ‘You said you were going away for New Year’s.’
‘I am,’ he says, ‘it’s only a few days difference. We’ll go away in February, somewhere nice and sunny.’ He picks up my shopping and gestures for us to head towards the escalator.
Oh, fuck it. He’s going to do what he wants. You might as well be gracious. You’ll have another forty Christmases together.
‘Fine. Fine,’ I say, shaking my head and following him out through the crowds.
It’s not that big a deal.
It’s only a few days difference.
We’ll go away in February. Somewhere nice and sunny.
On Christmas Eve, just before midnight, James tells me he’s flying to the Cayman Islands the following morning, without me.
For the second time in this relationship I feel like he’s punched me full on in the guts.
He’s decided against Vegas. Though there is indeed a 10am flight to Vegas on the 25th. And the weather is indeed mild – mid-60s. But he’d been booked on the 2pm flight to the Cayman Islands a week before we’d even had that conversation.
Oh, he wasn’t lying; apparently I was asking the wrong question.
He wants some quiet time away.
I point out that he’s staying with a married couple and their three screaming kids.
Turns out he wants some quiet time away from me.
I am silent for five minutes, during which time I start to piece together what has actually been going on in this relationship. James stares at me with scared eyes. I can’t work out if he’d rather I was devastated or furious.
‘Is this still about that ridiculous thing from before?’
He nods.
‘This is about my weight?’
He doesn’t react.
‘I’m not fucking fat, James.’
‘It’s something to do with your weight …’
He’s confused.
He ‘doesn’t know if he loves me enough’ to marry me.
Here’s a little clue: he doesn’t.
Merry Christmas.
Crumble
1. noun – a baked pudding consisting of a crumbly mixture over stewed fruit
2. verb – to fall into tiny fragments, disintegrate
Boxing Day.
My alarm goes off at 5am. 5am?
For a brief moment, I’m so confused with tiredness I forget I’m ‘in a bad place’.
Then I spy the untouched Christmas dinner on my bedside table that Laura insisted on bringing round yesterday, while I lay here in shock.
With instant despair I remember everything, including the fact that I’m due in a really bad place within the hour: Fletchers, Kilburn High Road.
Today is ‘Patronise The Shopfloor Workers Day’; those of us from Head Office who couldn’t think of an excuse quickly enough spend eight whole hours ‘mucking in’ at our local store, pretending to be at one with the shelf stackers. Outside it is snowing, but the automatic doors stay open due to the flurry of customers coming to take advantage of our exciting Boxing Day bargains: selected turkey pâtés are now half-price.
I end up in Wet Fish. No one told me to bring gloves, so my fingers are like frozen crab sticks, hoisting leaky pouches of protein from a stack of crates. I feel sorry for myself. I feel sorry for these mackerel too – bet their Christmas wasn’t great either.
Five hours into my shift and I’m finally starting to enjoy myself. My hands no longer reek of fish residue. I’ve finished stacking, and am now price checking with a cool gun that picks up barcodes from 20 feet. Joyce on Ambient is telling me about her ex who left her when she was eight months pregnant, for a girl with a tattoo of Robbie Williams on her breast.
‘So, why did you split up with this nob-head then?’
I pause my gun over the Sugar-Free Santa Lollipops. ‘I’m not sure we’ve actually split up …’ Her eyebrows rise.
A woman with too many layers in her hair and a Regional Manager badge reading ‘K Dobbs’, swoops on us from the Bakery section. ‘What are you doing?’ she says to me.
‘Price checking.’
‘You are who?’ she says, so close n
ow I can smell last night’s sherry binge.
‘Sophie Klein. Head Office.’
‘I didn’t ask where you work. You’re doing that all wrong. Chilled first, then Frozen.’
‘Denise in the office said start here …’
Her gaze drifts over my shoulder towards biscuits. ‘Chilled, Frozen.’
The ‘normal’ me would never let a K Dobbs bother me. But today I’m very far from normal. I go to the loo thinking I’ll splash my face and come back in a moment. Forty minutes later, I’m still sitting on the cubicle floor trying to stop sobbing. My eye make-up tracks down my cheeks. There’s no loo roll so I’ve been forced to blow my nose on my own t-shirt: classy.
And now I have acute pains in my lower gut which, if last night’s bathroom performance is anything to go by means I have a Very Big Problem. And a dilemma. What to use as makeshift toilet paper: my yellow Fletchers fleece or my t-shirt? I’m screwed either way. There’s no bin in here. How am I going to dispose of either without attracting attention and then sudden death by humiliation?
If I run really, really fast can I make it the mile back home in the next three minutes?
Stick around. It gets a lot worse.
I need to leave town.
Don’t worry, not because I shat myself at work. I didn’t, though I might as well have. In the end K Dobbs came to hunt me down and found me on the loo, knickers round my ankles, sobbing. I begged her to fetch Joyce. Joyce came in, bless her, and went back to the shop floor to buy me some bog roll (they only had the Jumbo 12 pack with Rudolphs on, I must remember to pop in and give her the cash back).
Turns out K Dobbs is no stranger to heartache either. She, Joyce and I had a cup of tea and some whisky in the staff room, then my two new best friends put me in a double fare minicab and sent me on my way, 11 rolls of Rudolph toilet tissue under my arm.
No, I need to leave town because I have the keys to my new home, a dream kitchen, and the future I dreamed of, but for one thing.
Where do broken hearts go? Whitney?
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